


a certain slant of light

by paenteom



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 05:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paenteom/pseuds/paenteom
Summary: The first time you meet him he is wearing a tie with little owls on it, nestled primly underneath a brown waistcoat. You remember this, because it is at complete odds with the barely concealed scowl he wears on his face.





	a certain slant of light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cypress_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypress_tree/gifts).



> Late birthday gift for my twin and partner in crime (and time and space and all that stuff) Cy [cypress-tree](http://cypress-tree.tumblr.com). 
> 
> She asked for ridiculous amounts of pining and I hope I was able to provide!

The first time you meet him he is wearing a tie with little owls on it, nestled primly underneath a brown waistcoat. You remember this, because it is at complete odds with the barely concealed scowl he wears on his face. He barely looks at you even as Benson introduces you—”This is Sonny Carisi, he’s the new blood in our department”—and instead launches directly into discussing the case with her. You study his intent face, the little dip between his eyebrows that deepens gradually as the grisly facts are revealed to him, and try to place the lurching feeling in the bottom of your stomach. 

He leans back against his desk and expels a breath as she finishes, his spine still somehow ramrod straight. 

“It’ll be difficult to prove to a judge,” he says. His speech is low, fast-paced, like the words are being pulled out of him rapidly. You feel like you need to look at his mouth to be able to keep pace. 

“Even with an eyewitness?” Benson says, sounding like she already knows the answer.

“An unreliable eyewitness,” he replies. “No jury is going to believe the word of a six year old known for her overactive imagination over the word of several adults.” 

“She didn’t imagine it!” The words leave your mouth before you’ve even consciously decided to speak. Frustration bubbles in your chest, making your skin itch. 

He turns to you for the first time then, taking you in. You feel like his gaze is slowly cataloguing you from head to toe, building a casual inventory of you: the bitten fingernails, the untucked shirt tails, the slightly ruffled hair. You’re aware for the first time of just how obviously the testimony of the little girl has shaken you. You had mentally prepared for stories like hers before the transfer, had a vague, abstract idea of what you might face. The reality still hit hard enough to hurt.

“That may be so, Carson,” he drawls, bulldozing straight over you when you correct him on your name, “but that doesn’t mean the jury will see it that way.”

“So we’re just not going to bother?” you shoot back, trying and failing to keep your voice even. His eyebrow rises at your tone and he pointedly glances at Benson next to you.

“Barba is on our side, Sonny,” she says in that conciliatory way she has, touching your elbow gently. “He has to be honest with us.” 

You grit your teeth but stay quiet all the same, helpless anger brimming just underneath your skin. It’s easy for him to be objective, you know this. He hadn’t seen her shaking hands, or the tear streaks on her face. He just decides over people’s lives from afar, their pain abstract for him. You decide then and there that you don’t like Rafael Barba. You don’t like him one bit.

———

You watch him in the harsh halogen light of the courthouse corridor, perfectly put together in his fancy suit, untouchable and remote. His face doesn’t give away what he might be feeling. He just stands among the throngs of people sidling around him, seemingly unaffected by the low tremor of anxiety that seems to have infected everyone else. The sight makes you feel slightly queasy somehow. 

You had insisted on coming along to the court date, even though Benson had advised against it. You know she thinks of you as particularly sensitive, easily bruised, even though you had gotten better at hiding it week after week. You hope your trepidation doesn’t show on your face as you file into the courtroom along with the rest, finding a seat towards the back. 

He seems almost inhumanly calm as he sits down at the prosecutor’s desk, sorting his documents with steady hands. You study the lines around his mouth, the perfect part of his hair, the rigid line of his shoulders that makes you want to curl your hand into a fist until the half moons of your fingernails bite into your palm. 

“Don’t worry,” Benson says next to you, having noticed the direction you’re looking in. “He’s good. It’ll be fine.”

Despite her assurance you’re completely unprepared for the steel in his usually quiet voice when he finally speaks, the assured way he presents your case like he didn’t list all the reasons it was a fool’s errand merely two weeks ago. He takes the defense apart in the same merciless way he had reduced you to quiet rage, but all condescending distance is gone from his voice this time. His tone is sharp, fire burning just underneath his carefully chosen words. 

You sit there in stunned stasis, exhaling around his words. Something throbs low in your stomach, flutters high in your chest. By the time the verdict is being read out you have already forgotten why you were ever nervous about this case in the first place. Benson sighs in relief next to you as the jury proclaims the defendant guilty. Your own breath seems to coalesce in your throat. 

He finds you in the corridor afterwards. His smile is easy and modest as Benson vigorously shakes his entire arm. You try carefully not to look at his mouth, although you don’t quite know why. 

“What did I tell you, Sonny?” Benson proclaims next to you. “Barba is the best.”

His gaze falls on you at her words. You raise your eyes to his and take in the pleased look in his eyes and the amused way his mouth turns up at the corners. Your heart beats a cacophony in your throat.

“I never doubted it for a second,” you say, managing to inject at least some dry sarcasm into your voice despite that. He doesn’t seem to be insulted at all by your mockery, just smiles even wider instead until his dimples show. The court win seemed to have taken some of the rigidity out of his body, the line of his back more relaxed than you have ever seen it.

“I’m glad I measured up to your no doubt high standards,” he quips as if he has known you for years. “I would hate to disappoint you, Carisi.”

Somehow the sound of your name out of his mouth stuns you. You don’t know why—maybe because you deep down still assumed he had never bothered to learn it. Maybe it’s the casual familiarity it implies, like you have done this a million times: standing in teeming court house halls, close enough to almost touch to avoid blocking people’s path. You’re too taken aback too reply but he doesn’t seem to notice, already bickering back and forth with Benson. 

Your skin feels warm, your shirt sticking to your back underneath your jacket. You hate to admit it to yourself, but your commitment to hating Rafael Barba is wavering dangerously. 

———

It gets easier to deal with after a while. You didn’t believe them when they told you at the start, how numb you could get to it all, but with every passing day the scenes become more commonplace, more normal to you. You’re not yet sure whether this is a good thing. You bite down on the doubt and remind yourself how important your work is every time the days of the week start to blur together into a haze of horror stories and tear streaked faces. You start counting them by highlights instead: the gratitude in someone’s voice, the admiration in your colleague’s eyes, every time you get to see Rafael Barba smile.

The last one still makes you flush hot with embarrassment in empty restrooms and behind recently shut office doors. You’d like to deny the effect he has on your mood but it’s hard to ignore the spring in your step and the flutter in your belly every time Benson calls you in for another brainstorm. You wonder if she noticed, if that’s why she asks you more than anyone else. You’re not sure whether you’d actually like to know.

Barba himself is as remote and unimpressed as ever. It has become a personal challenge of yours to snatch his attention or prove him wrong about you in some way, every glance in your direction or quirk of his mouth another victory. 

Today is no different. Your tongue darts out to wet dry lips nervously on the way to Barba’s office. You try to count your steps to ground yourself. The sight of him just outside his office door takes you by surprise; you hadn’t quite steeled yourself enough for the sight of his face yet. He’s talking to a colleague, his expression intent and serious. You try not to stare at his forearms, revealed for once by his rolled up sleeves, and study the patterned marble floor instead. 

Benson’s hand on your arm draws your gaze up. Her face is kind; she smiles at you understandingly and says: “I know he likes to tease but you shouldn’t take him seriously. He knows you’re doing good work.”

“Does he?” you say, not sure how you’re meant react. She nods, lowers her voice as you start nearing the office. 

“He told me last time that we should be glad you got the witness to open up because we’d have likely lost the case without him. He wanted to make sure I give you credit for that.”

Your stomach does a violent somersault and you inhale sharply, stunned by her words. He hadn’t let anything of this show the last time you saw him. The idea that he talks about you, thinks about you when you’re not present, makes you feel hot all over.

“You again,” Barba says when he notices you. “I suppose you have updates on the Miller case?” 

“A complication,” Benson says. “They found a sealed college record in which Miller accused Hanson of assault, which was rejected by the school for lack of evidence. Doubtlessly they will use it to make Miller look like a liar.”

“Though just because he wasn’t found guilty doesn’t mean he’s not guilty,” you say, realizing immediately how clumsy you sound. “I mean— you know what I mean.”

“Can’t say I ever had any insight into what goes on in your head, no,” Barba says, but the words seem to lack their usual sting. When you look up at him you think you catch the ghost of a smile on his face, though it’s already gone by the time he turns back to Benson.

By the time you leave the office Barba has a plan of attack and you have sweaty palms. You try hard to remain inconspicuous, wiping your hands on your leg when Benson isn’t looking, but she must have noticed your distraction anyway. 

“You okay, Carisi?” she asks. Her tone has taken on the motherly note that she uses with skittish subjects and you wonder how bad you must seem on the outside. A quick look in the reflective glass windows to the left of you reveals that at least your hair is still meticulous. 

“I’m good, just— nervous about the trial.”

“Yeah, me too,” Benson says, a rare admission of vulnerability. You’ve long since started to suspect that her confident bluster at trials was more for your sake than anything else.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” you say, surprised to be the one having to administer a pep talk for once. “We still have three weeks to get the necessary evidence together.”

“You know, Carisi,” she says, “you really are one of us now.”

You carry the warm feeling in your stomach all the way home.

———

It all escalates in your thirteenth month on the squad. The catalyst should be small, insignificant, the mere brush of your fingers against his as he hands you a file. Instead the enormity of the moment rises like the tide around you, drowning out all other thought. He has never touched you before.

The file slips out of your fingers even as you unconsciously step back, your hand balled into a fist. You’re suddenly overcome with a cold that makes you shiver, goosebumps rising on your arms even under the warm rays of sun brightening the room. The trail of strewn paper between you seems almost like a chasm separating you from him. 

“Butterfingers,” you manage to choke out with badly feigned nonchalance, your heart hammering out an uneven rhythm in your ears. Barba’s face telegraphs surprise and something else that you don’t want to think about too closely. 

“Listen, I just remembered I promised Rollins I need to help her with a case, so I need to—”

You jerk your thumb towards the door and hope he doesn’t notice the trembling in your hand. Your skin still tingles where it touched his. Your laugh sounds off, even to yourself.

“Are you—” Barba begins, an odd tone in his voice that you haven’t heard before. You don’t let him finish.

“I’ll send Benson ‘round tomorrow, okay? It was great catching up.” 

The sound of the door slamming behind you seems to echo louder than usual as your breath rushes out all at once, leaving you weak in the knees. The image of Barba’s concerned frown, illuminated by sunlight, swims fragmented into view as you close your eyes and try to steady yourself. 

_There’s a certain slant of light, on winter afternoons, that oppresses, like the weight of cathedral tunes_ , your spinning mind supplies, grasping for the familiar. By the time you leave the building your hand has stopped shaking. 

You avoid him after that. After the fifth excuse as to why you can’t accompany Benson, she stops asking. You try not to worry about what she must think of you. If she suspects anything she doesn’t let it show.

———

Pretending that nothing ever happened works great for a while. This particular strategy is so successful in fact, that you are entirely unprepared when Benson comes to a halt next to your desk four weeks later and raps you on the shoulder. 

“Court at four.” 

Her tone is casual, almost distracted, and she wanders off immediately after. You remain in your seat, rooted to the spot. It’s not like she would force you to attend the trial, but your absence would take your avoidance of Barba from defensibly accidental to definitely deliberate. He is too observant a person to not put the pieces together.

“You okay, man?” 

Tutuola’s voice drags you out of your dazed stupor. You hurry to rearrange your features into a reassuring smile. If he notices the fake cheer in your voice throughout the next hour he doesn’t comment on it.

You stare unseeing at the blurry landscape outside of the car window the entire ride to the courthouse. Your fingers—the hand Barba had brushed—drum out a nervous pattern on your leg. It shouldn’t be hard to act casual and greet him like always, but you’re not sure you can still reliably pretend: all this was so much easier when he was still untouchable and separated from you by three layers of clothing and professionalism. 

Your body is coiled so tightly with stress by the time you enter the building that your shoulders are aching from the strain. You are so anxious to get the initial embarrassment of the first meeting over with that you’re almost disappointed when Barba doesn’t show up to greet you before the trial starts. 

Benson seems as worried as you are as the crowd slowly starts filing inside the courtroom and begins to take their places. It’s not like him to be late. 

You expel your breath in one big, relieved sigh when you spot him entering the room with the last of the stragglers and marching determinedly towards the front. It’s only when he takes his place next to Miller that you realize he hasn’t looked your way even once. Normally he takes the time to look for Benson and you in the crowd, give you a small, conspiratorial nod. Today he just sorts his files in silence, 

You can’t help but feel a sting of rejection, despite being perfectly aware that it was you who meticulously avoided him for a month in the first place. 

The trial itself is drawn out and tiring. Several times you have to keep yourself from exclaiming something out loud, your fists balled on top of your knees in anger at Hanson’s bare faced lies. Barba remains comparatively unflappable, as always. You can tell that he isn’t unaffected by the uncaring cruelty of Hanson’s glib replies to his questions: the slight downturn of his mouth and harsh line of his shoulders gives him away. But he plays confidence well enough to come across as entirely convincing anyway, smoothly moving on to the next question even when the defense attempts to derail him. Miller’s relieved tears when the judge reads the guilty verdict are enough to finally make you relax into the bench and unclench your fingers from the fabric of your pants.

By the time you’re watching everyone milling out into the corridor you feel like an idiot about your earlier freak-out, and the entire past month. The work you both do is important, certainly too important to be compromised by something as silly as a schoolboy's crush. You can learn to control yourself around him and in time, hopefully, you won’t have to anymore. When Benson steers you towards Barba outside of the courtroom you are glad, more than anything, to finally see his face again. You had missed him and his prissy hair cut and terrible ties, as much as you had tried to ignore it.

“You had me worried there for a while,” Benson says instead of a greeting, although you can hear her smile in her voice.

“No need to lie,” Barba answers, unruffled as always.

You can’t help but snort and his eyes dart from Benson to you. 

“Carisi,” he says, sounding unusually stiff. “It’s been a while.”

You manage to keep yourself from shuffling your feet uncomfortably and shoot him a bland smile.

“It’s been a busy month. You know how it is.”

“Maybe I should let you two catch up for a bit,” Benson injects and brushes past Barba towards the exit.

“Maybe you should,” Barba says, and you’re too stunned to stop her. 

As soon as she is out of earshot he grabs your wrist and begins to lead you down the corridor. You follow him, too dazed by the skin contact and his strange behaviour to put up even token protest. After barely a minute, he opens what seems like the door to a random, empty office and ushers both of you inside.

You come to a halt in the middle of the room, the sound of the door falling closed behind you almost drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears.

“Have you been avoiding me?” Barba says, a strange expression on his face.

“Yes,” you find yourself saying, to your own surprise. Your heart hammers wildly against your ribcage. Every nerve in your body seems to be concentrated where his hand is still loosely wrapped around your wrist.

“Well, don’t,” he murmurs. Before you can muster a reply, he presses his lips gently against the corner of your mouth, a lingering kiss that only breaks when you exhale a shivering breath. 

He doesn’t move away again even then, his face close enough to yours that you could count his eyelashes if you wanted to. God, you want to. 

His gaze is earnest, wide-eyed, as he studies you for a few seconds before pressing another kiss to your mouth, his warm lips covering yours entirely this time. 

“Don’t,” he repeats when he breaks away for the second time. His tone is serious this time, intent.

“Okay,” you manage to mumble, dazed. “I won’t.”

You watch the skin around his eyes crinkle slightly as he smiles, swallowing around the overwhelming tenderness welling up inside of you.

This time, when he moves towards you again, eyes fluttering closed, you kiss him back.


End file.
